


Christmas at the Keep

by Neftzer_nettlestonenell



Category: Robin Hood (BBC 2006)
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Fluff, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-29
Updated: 2015-12-29
Packaged: 2018-05-10 02:39:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5566123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neftzer_nettlestonenell/pseuds/Neftzer_nettlestonenell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Christmastime fic. Set somewhere after most of the events of S2 while the whole of the cast is still alive. Dan Scarlett is dead. (How awful is it to date a fic by who's dead and who isn't yet?)<br/>Good outlaws deserve a holiday.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Christmas at the Keep

It snowed terrifically.

Had done for three? _Three_ days. Unlike anything the Western Midlands had seen in a lifetime--perhaps two.

The fires at Aedelmaer Keep had been burning high and bright all that time. The bedchambers, oft empty since Sir Carter and his brother Sir Thomas had left for Crusade (Sir Thomas never to be returned), were bursting with guests.

Outlaws, to be exact. At least, that is to say, Nottinghamshire outlaws. The keep's servants had an ongoing debate over how such a species of outlaw was to be viewed here, in Lessex, removed from the reach of Nottingham's Sheriff, beyond, even, the bounds of Sherwood Forest.

But such discussions were kept low, and far away from the earshot of either their master, the elder Lord Aedelmaer, or his son--currently in residence, Sir Carter. Both of whom had made it abundantly clear the forest folk that had arrived without entourage or baggage were to be treated as every inch the honored guests.

And yet this crew of folk required surprisingly little of the Aedelmaer servants. They dressed themselves (assuming they removed the clothes they had arrived in to sleep), served themselves at table, and generally proved self-sufficient enough to lighten the general holiday load on the keep's staff by well more than half.

It was an awkward tightrope to walk: speaking ill of the lord's guests while knowing that they had split more than half the wood now on the main pile.

And then there was also her. The specifics of who she was were immaterial. What she was was clear from her bearing, her impeccable manner. Her traveling clothes might have proven worn (her baggage clearly lost somewhere, and with it her gowns and headdresses), but there was no disguising her inherent nobility. There was once again a Lady in the Keep.

"My lady," Sir Carter found Marian again sitting vigil at the tower's highest window, flung open, her eyes surveying, "will you not come downstairs? Surely the others miss your company--and you theirs?"

Marian smiled to herself. It had been sometime since (in the Sheriff's far-from-chivalrous castle overfilled with coarse men willing to do anything for him, and frightened noblemen too fearful to oppose him) she had enjoyed such courtly treatment and attentions. Certainly little enough of it was to be found among the outlaws' camp.

She smiled, because she had to admit to herself that she enjoyed it. She smiled because she had no trouble recalling Carter at a time when kind treatment of her and Robin's fellows was the furthest thing from his mind, and she smiled because she had no plan to leave her perch for longer than a few brief moments--no matter his knightly tones entreating her to do so.

"Am I to, 'Sir Carter' you?" she asked. "You may feel free to 'My Lady' and 'Lady Marian' me as long as this sabbatical lasts, but we know each other too well, don't you think? To be anything but Carter, and Marian? Or need I fear you deferring to 'Lord Much' as well?"

He smiled, just short of a laugh, his hand resting on the pommel of the sword at his waist, which he wore even when at his peaceful home. "The courtesy is for my father," he informed her with a short bow of his head. "He is quite taken with your beauty and grace, Marian. And he would think me remiss to leave your titles out in my address of you."

"Then I accept them," she said, agreeing to step away from the window for the moment. "On his behalf. He is a dear man, and I would not ruin his holiday with his son. And I confess, it is gratifying to feel once again...respected." She did not have to outline her life at Nottingham Castle for him.

Carter nodded, offering his hand for them to descend the stair.

"But you should know, no matter what he says," she tattled on the only member of the gang Carter had not met in their prior encounters, "Allan is NOT Lord Wessing. Nor has he given up any noble holding to pursue a life of outlawry."

"I was not deceived for a moment," Carter claimed. "Where is he from?"

"Heaven alone knows," she replied as they stopped just before the final steps led them into the common room where the gang was situated about the warm, comfortable room on chairs and benches. They were dry, and a few had even taken care with their hair and appearance. Much, easily the most at home in such an environment, had eaten to his heart's content and was passed out asleep nearby the hearth.

Allan was at trying to teach Djaq and Will how to play a new game of some sort (no doubt involving gambling), and all three had warm drinks close at hand.  
Luke Scarlett, who had been invited, was standing among the other non-outlaws who had also been invited, for he was an old friend of theirs: Alice Little and Little Little John--the least comfortable in such a large, and noble room. A room for knights and lords, the safest, most defensible and fortified spot in all Aedelmaer. But Little Little John had enough enthusiasm for seeing things he'd never seen before, and Luke had made it his task to set Alice Little at ease, and both were settling in nicely.

* * *

It was two days to Christmas.

"Yes, but why is he here?" Much asked the air in front of himself (which is to say, Allan). "He is meant to be with the King."

"He's on holiday, ain't he? Just like us."

"Templars don't _take_ holidays," Much answered, with as much foreboding as he could attempt to fit into his voice.

"So what are you saying, Much--Carter's invited us here with some dark intent?" Will asked. "He's fed and housed us and--"

"Turned us fat and lazy--" Much continued on.

"Fat and lazy don't come on in but a matter of days--" Allan added pointedly, an intense gaze leveled at Much's midsection.

"Well, you tell me where Robin is, then. You tell me why's Little John not arrived." Much noticeably dropped his voice and gave a significant look toward Alice and Little Little John. "You tell me why Marian is kept from us. What does she know that we don't?"

The three other outlaws did not even bother to exchange a roll of their eyes.

"Much," Djaq answered him, her voice willing to be reasonable when Allan and Will's had at this point only annoyance to offer. "The snow is terrible. It was a miracle we arrived at all. And that was before it got as bad as it is now."

"John and Robin should never have stayed behind without us," Much moaned. "There is no telling what might have befallen them."

"Perhaps it is _we_ who ought not have come ahead without them," a little-heard voice rang through the room, and Marian had the good sense to cast a glance over to Alice and Little John, as if apologizing for speaking so in front of them.

"So you feel some sinister plot at work as well?" Much asked, his eyes growing wide.

Allan answered for her, "no, you worried grandmother. She's just twitterpated enough to wish herself out there in the blow with them, and them having another person to worry about keeping warm and fed and on her feet." He did not bother to speak so under his breath, and the look Marian gave him for creating a response from her--and the nature of his tone, was far from festive.

Will, jumping in in an attempt to reconcile the bleak statements in front of Little John's visiting family, spoke. "John would not be moved, though we could all see what was coming. He would not have left a moment sooner than when he was finished making sure the poor of Locksley and Knighton AND Nettlestone were prepared to weather this."

"There is nothing to regret," Carter broke in, entering from where he had been meeting with his father. "And there is no option now for leaving: the castle gates will not open, they are wedged by a high, strong drift. Had you stayed in Sherwood, you would be buried in a cave or trapped under Will's cover for your camp. They are either coming to us or they are not."

"It took us four days to arrive here. And the weather then was not yet so fierce," Djaq offered.

"I could not feel seven of my toes," Much wailed, "but Robin and John are worth more than my toes."

Letting Much's podiatric reference take him out of the heavy moment, Allan squinted.

"No." Carter said. "To leave here would be foolish. In such a snow, all landmarks are thrice harder to find. In the wind and the ongoing snowfall we have no chance of finding a track."

"You could pass within feet of a man and not even know it," Marian said, unhappily agreeing with him. She turned back toward the archway that led to the stairs and the upper tower.

"And so they are lost," Much whispered, barely audible.

Marian snap-turned, her eyes telling him off more effectively than her voice might. 

A moment passed and no one spoke to defend or shout down Much's conclusion, nor Marian's response to it, before she turned back around and once again climbed the stair.

Will watched her leave, his glance catching on that of his brother's.

"We waited for you," Luke said, "in Scarborough. We waited, and you never came." His chin trembled somewhat with his speech.

Will walked toward him and grabbed him into his arms, not unlike he had when Little Lukey had needed his big brother.

* * *

It was Christmas.

Nothing had changed. Robin and John had not magically appeared. Conversation about their awaited arrival had fallen off. Their absence was strongly on the minds of all present, but the overwhelming sentiment had become one of (feigned) belief that the two men had wisely chosen to ride the storm out in Sherwood, or with friendly villagers back in Nottinghamshire.

"'Could've made it to Lady Glasson's," Allan had suggested. "'Be enjoyin' a warm hearth and good food."

"Matilda'd not let them stay out in the cold," Will had declared, as though on the wise woman's behalf.

"Robin only takes unnecessary risks where helping others is concerned," Carter had said after one late supper.

Much had snorted at this notion, adding under his breath, "or fun, or a challenge, or Marian is concerned..."

"John has so longed to see his family again," Djaq had mentioned in a low tone to Luke.

And yet, Christmas was arrived. And despite the growling winds and thickly falling snow, the keep was well-prepared and stocked for the occassion. If possible, the fires' flames grew higher and brighter. The October ale (which had already been plentiful in supply) was joined by a honey mead and for those with appreciation for such a thing, French wine. The castle's storeroom yielded food, and its barn fresh meat.

And bleak predictions for most present, were sent to the back of their minds. It was nothing, for an outlaw, to be unavoidably detained. Stories were shared and grown of other times Robin did not arrive when expected, of missed drops and wild reasons ranging from girls needing to be kissed to wandering magicians causing a man to wake up in a different glade than the one where he last laid his head.

Much spoke of Christmas in the Holy Land, Carter of his childhood at the Keep. Allan shared his youthful ambition to become a roaming troubador, living off the good graces and patronage of the rich. Will and Luke sat shoulder-to-shoulder, their own Scarlett family memories tightly between them. Djaq stared into the fire and conjured a desert landscape in her mind, peopled the vision with those she had lost. Little Little John had fallen asleep upon a fur rug, belly full of pork.

Marian had begun her walk down the stair to join the others in a late meal (or a continuation of the day-long meal they had been partaking in), when she stopped just short of being visible to them and stood to overhear what they said. She heard the rollicking tale of Allan's first (and last) minstrel performance, listened as Much attempted to communicate the differences in celebrating in a far and distant land in which this very holiday had its roots. Heard his voice catch as he said Robin's name.

_What have we got,_  she thought, _without him? These outlaws. What are we without you, Robin, but each of us alone? And lonely._  Djaq, a stranger in a strange land. Allan, a nobody from nowhere (or anywhere)? Much, a manservant without a man to serve. Will, without a father to follow.

She stopped then, deciding against joining the group, and mounted the stairs yet again. But this time her place near the window ledge had been taken.

It was Alice Little.

"My son is very like his father," she said, hearing Marian enter. "It was always thus at Christmas: much food and much ale, and he would fall asleep mid-sentence upon my lap."

Marian did not think this sounded of a very pleasant way to pass Christmas, the bulk of Little John upon such a petite lap, but did not say so.

"They will come," she said instead.

"I do not doubt it," Alice Little replied, sounding very much like she did.

They kept watch until the night grew dark, eyes closed, and they both slumped in their seats.

* * *

It was the morning after Christmas. The day broke, cold and windy, but snow fell no longer from the sky: only whirlwinds occasionally caught it up and blew it about where it lay.

Alice Little had gone to find breakfast.

Marian straightened her posture. She had begun to formulate a plan, step one of which was to locate proper trousers for traveling in this weather. She could sit in this chair no longer.

The distance was clearly visible, though harsh to look at with the sun reflecting off it. She would go, would find out what she could. Anyone who attempted to prevent her would regret it.

A dark speck on the horizon seemed to move. She could not be certain it was not a trick of the light. And yet it seemed to lurch forward with some regularity. She stared at it so hard she thought she might strain an eye.

Thirty minutes later it was still coming, this large, thunderous bulk of a man, his beard and hair white with ice or snow--or perhaps the travail of the journey. His clothes were dark, they belonged in a forest. 

Alice Little returned and saw, ran to tell the others.

It was forty-five minutes before a second, smaller figure (hair just as white, face less bearded) was visible, so close he traveled behind his comrade, in his very footsteps, where Little John broke what he could of a path through the snow.

Marian heard Much shout in triumph, heard where it echoed sharply off the stone walls. She said nothing, keeping to her place at the window.

The duo was too far out still to hail. Carter sent men to the castle gates, to fashion some way to take the two outlaws in, without having to wait for the snow wedging them closed to be removed.

The two men walked the moat on its frozen water, which held up even Little John's bulk. From within the tower room, the outlaws-in-residence cheered.

Ropes were slung over the gates, in the hopes the two travelers had enough strength to climb them. Five men were tasked to the two lines, to pull what of their weight the arriving men could not support, and get them over the top sooner, into the warmth of the Keep. Leaving the tower room, the outlaws joined in the preparations.

Carter gave orders for blankets and boiling water, fires to be stoked high, bracing drinks to be brought. Much fussed. Will and Djaq smiled. Allan attempted to look bored. And failed utterly.

Little Little John danced what version of a jig he might. Alice Little beamed. Marian sat.

Little John came over first, managed only narrowly not to crush Carter's men. When Robin crested the top, all present saw their leader slightly swoon with the weight of the journey he and John had just undertaken. John saw it, too, and moved himself so that he might catch the other man, rather than forcing him to use what little stamina he had left to lower himself down from the high seige doors.

Marian watched on from the tower, standing when Robin dropped into the safety of Little John's arms. Grabbing up her skirts, she took the stairs a pace, meeting the arrival party as Robin stood propped between Much and Allan, and walked (somewhat on his own power) into the large, fully-prepared-for-he-and-John common room.

"Happy Christmas, my Love," he said to her upon sighting her at the bottom of the stair. His face tried to cock in a smile, but was not yet warm enough for subtler expressions. The result was somewhat gruesome.

"Christmas was yesterday," she said, in a tone the other outlaws could not quite believe they heard in the voice of the woman so earnestly waiting for Robin's safe arrival.

"Yes, yes," he said, as they lowered him to sit upon a stool. "We had feared that," he spared a brief glance toward his travel companion, John, who was seated himself before a laver of steaming water for his feet and hands. "The storm at times grew the heavens so dark we did not know if we passed a whole night or only several hours. Daybreak and moonrise were unseeable."

"When did you leave the shire?" Carter asked, still directing--plates of food and drink this time.

Robin answered, and the others gasped. Their trip through terrible snow had lasted a sennight.

"Bah, what is Christmas to Robin Hood?" Marian asked in the wake of their shocked reaction, and before Much could, she had dropped to her knees and begun un-wrapping the rags about Robin's ankles and boots, to get his feet into the warm water laver. 

The servants balked at seeing her so, their elegant Lady guest, serving some--well, some what they did not know. Much looked indignant at her usurping his place. 

She did not seem to notice anyone else in the room, save Robin. "Every day is one for good works." Her face was even with his knee.

"Did you think I would not come, Marian?" his voice was soft, though rough-edged from the cold wind's mistreatment.

"I did not doubt it," she lied to him, tears unfallen from her eyes that only he, in his close proximity to her, could see.

He looked into her face, felt the water (if not yet its warmth) on his feet. He could see the anger in her as well, the outrage with herself that she had given in to disbelief, to doubt that they would remain unparted in this life, this adventure of theirs. He could see the thousand shouting words she was holding back for him having stayed behind and sent her on ahead with the others. And he could feel, in the gentleness of her gesture to step in and care for his weary, weakend form when a servant--or even Much--would have seen to the task, the love she had for him that burned hot and cold and possessed her much as it did him: oft with prickles and always with a fierce but uneasy need for the other. He let her lie stand.

She was working on the rags wrapped about his hands, when he took one--rags streaming from it--and brought it toward her hair (he was far too cold to try and touch her face). "I would kiss you once for each of the lost days," he told her, "but my lips 'twould be unwelcome chilly in the task."

She took his half-ragged hand from her hair and place it just north of the neckline of her frock and smiled. It was an intimate smile, neither large nor broad.

"Worry not, Marian," Allan--who had stepped away from John and his family's reunion broke in, "Carter's enough ale here to get Robin Hood and his gang quite warm-- _and merry_ \--before nightfall."

"Where is the good broth?" Much nattered, loudly trying to be heard over the bustle. "He cannot be fed a hearty pork--not right away! It is broth that is needed!"

"I am for the kitchen," Djaq said quietly to Will and Luke, "perhaps they have something with which I can brew a restorative tea."

Will nodded, and he and Luke stepped out to chop and gather more wood.

Little Little John had climbed onto his father's lap the moment Little John's overcoat was removed. Alice Little was watching on in contented peace.

Marian saw Robin's head go back, just as he caught himself from falling into an exhausted slumber. He would have no strength for Allan's offer of ale tonight, she could see. He would have no strength for kisses (or what came after them) either. Seven days' travel hung upon him, making him drowsy as a newborn.

_You do not know,_  she thought. _Look at us. What have we without you? You are the linchpin to our happiness, to our belonging._  

"Sleep," is what she said. "I will be here when you wake."

"You will stand guard 'til then?"

"You will not recall this conversation," she warned him, herself somewhat aware of the effects of intense exhaustion.

"Then speak to me of things I should not know, Marian," he said. "Tell me the depths of your heart. All the secrets you hold there. All the things a man imagines might be his when there has been nothing but the white of a driving snow...and the call of your face...in front of him for days."

His eyes were heavy-lidded, he was slumped low in the chair they had found for him. The others were once again busy, active, some clucking over John, others had set themselves to tasks elsewhere. There was room enough for her to climb in beside him, and so she did. They could not get back the lost Christmas, but the spirit of giving still called to her from her hard-won place beside him. She began a litany of things she would never usually have voiced--much less to him. He was dropping off even as she began.

He would recall nothing of it tomorrow, nothing but the core warmth of her, the scent of her among the Keep's best blankets. He would recall nothing but the strong pull and feeling of home to a man who had gone so long without knowing any longer where to look for one.


End file.
